Crown of the Realm (A White Knight Adventure Book 2) (6 page)

THE INSISTENT SHOUTS
and muffled words of alarm, filtered through layers of limestone and fear, could not be deciphered. But the underlying meaning was clear. Tragedy had befallen someone, most probably someone of the fairer sex.

André reacted first. “Wait here,” he said, and was off, bolting up the stairs with revitalized purpose.

Tancrede stared at Drake with accusing eyes. Glowing eerily green in the shifting rush light, his face had become a devil’s mask. Drake decided not to wait out the unknown with a betrayed ghost. Taking the torch with him, he resigned d’Évreux to the dark and climbed to the kitchen.

In the predawn hours, the cooks
, scullery maids, cellarers, and bakers were hard at work preparing for a sumptuous midday meal. Meanwhile, panic rang down from the castle’s upper reaches, provoking worried discourse interspersed with the slicing of an onion, the gutting of a flounder, and the whipping of a savory cream.

“Another lady dies, they say,” said one.

“I said only yesterday,” commented another, crossing herself, “when the lady Martine sacrificed her life for the king, that it was an omen of more wickedness to come. Surely a dark hand is at work.”

“The king’s court leaves for Chinon on the morrow. Three days early.”

“I’ll be glad to be away from here. I’ve heard tell stories about Drake fitzAlan. He has a thirst for blood and a taste for buxom women.”

The cook
made the sign of the cross. “May he strike me dead with his good looks.”

The women giggled while the men looked daggers.

So busy were the servants, plucking their capons and clucking their tongues, that none noticed the presumed malefactor of the evil deed
s depositing a torch and crossing agilely out of their domain.

In the darkened passageway leading from kitchen to great hall, Alais Capét de France materialized as if from the walls. “I see you’ve returned to the scene of your
brother’s treachery. Don’t worry. I shan’t call out.” She stepped away from the shadows. Light glowing from nearby wall sconces flamed her hair to a fiery chestnut.

“You’re unable to sleep, milady?”

Spots of blood dusted the bodice of her brocaded satin. “I have just come from laying out the Lady Martine. Where goes your ubiquitous brother?”

“Everywhere and nowhere.”

A sharp finger pushed him against the wall. Her tongue emerged and licked his ear. “This time, my black-hearted knight, I don’t believe anyone can save you and your brother, not even the king.” The oversweet fragrance was vaguely repulsive, and her roaming lips even more so.

“This is all very pleasant, milady, but what have I done to deserve such reward?”

She canted her head to one shoulder and surveyed him benignly. “Ah, you’re the other one. Your brother would have been more amenable and less cruel.”

“I take it he has been in your bed.”

“And you have been in Richard’s.” Up close, it was clear that the once brilliant sheen of her budding youth had diminished, but the hatred residing behind her eyes aged her more than thirty years of living could have accomplished. She lashed out her hand and slapped him roundly, the assault reverberating against the walls. “That is for your impudence.”

Drake rubbed his cheek and
leered at her. “If I have offended the lady, I apologize most humbly.”

“And this is for your guile.”
She went to slap him across the other cheek, but he checked her hand. The deadlock was at an impasse, both glaring at each other to see what the other would do. She wrenched away just as another mournful wail pierced the gloom. Drawing the sign of the cross athwart her heaving breast, Alais muttered, “
Mon Dieu
. You have struck again, haven’t you?”

“You had better go
, milady, else people we wonder what you’ve been up to.”

“Oh, you are a dangerous one. We will have to speak again, though alas, I don’t think we’ll get the chance.” Like
a sprite, she flew up the staircase without a backward glance.

In the great hall, Drake tr
od nimbly between hounds and seminude men. Without clothing, very little differentiated nobleman from squire, cleric from knight, dog from servant. The rush-strewn floor absorbed his footfalls. The wall tapestries fluttered in his wake. Two lone swallows left off scavenging and winged their way to sanctuary in the rafters above.

When he stepped into the gatehouse, a sword awaited, drawn and ready. “I anticipated a vicious rat might be skulking about, and I was right.”

“Awake so early in the morn, John? Or did you never retire? I fear there’s an epidemic afoot.”

The prince took after his mother more than his father, except for the hair, which was his father’s though darker in hue, and
in the eyes, which were grayer than his mother’s. He made up for his prettiness with a bad temper, and proved it now by thrusting the point of his sword squarely into Drake’s throat. “Dear cousin, what have you wrought this time?”

“Put up, John. You don’t seriously imagine you’re going to use that.”

“Why ever not?” Though a year older than his cousin, John evinced a severe maturity, the result of having spent his formative years as an oblate at the Royal Abbey of Fontevraud. The fourth of four surviving sons at the time, his parents intended to sacrifice their youngest to God’s dominion. The premature deaths of two of his older brothers brought him out of the monastery and into the world, no more religious and all the more ambitious.

Drake critically ran his eyes over the ruffled hair, the turned collar of his blouse
, and the sorry state of his hose, one of which sagged toward an unbuckled boot. None of the slovenliness lessened the beauty of his bejeweled costume or the high color of his face. “Were you going to a pontifical ceremony, cousin, or coming from one?”

John turned his head aside and called
for the guard.

“I beat you once, unarmed. I trust you’ll not chance further embarrassment.”

The prince warbled wretchedly. “You always attack below the belt, Drake, even as a child. I remember …”

“
Ach, that damnable chess game you lost to me.”

“I didn’t lose.” John’s lips upended. “You cheated.”

“As usual, you have it backwards.”

“You’ve never thought well of me. Never.” He backed Drake to the wall, pointedly, and fit the edge of his honed blade beneath the jawbone. “Why is that? I never understood.”

Drake submissively threw his hands up. He had not yet begun to sweat, though his neck was developing a painful cramp. “Because you’ll stop at nothing to achieve your own selfish ends.”

John’s pale
face looked like one of the many open books he was always pressing his nose against. “Again, he insults me!” Outrage and callousness pressed John’s sword more insistently against Drake’s throat.

“Careful with your play toy.”

He jerked his head aside and yelled louder this time. “Guard!”

“A play toy you know not how to use.”

“I used it once on you before. As I recall, all I must do is slice and draw.”

“Not strictly so.”

“Oh no?”

“You were so busy waving it about, confused about the various parts and manner of usage, I thought it time to give you a lesson.
So I put my back to your blade to bolster your confidence.”

“Do bolster my confidence again.” He played with the weapon, sawing
Drake’s jawline, flirting with an earlobe, depressing the point against his shoulder. “I have challenged you. Why do you not take up the challenge? Throw your neck into my sword. Richard shall rejoice that I have rid his kingdom of a troublesome knight. No doubt he’ll reward me with another castle.”

“Why stop at a castle? Why not another shire?”

“Why not ten?”

“Or twenty? One for every man and woman you’ve killed or had killed since your brother became king. Or
does twenty fall short?”

The light eyes darkened with fury. “Why not the whole of Merrie England and all the God-damned inhabitants therein?”

“As to that, you can add another tick mark to your sword pommel. Tancrede d’Évreux is dead.”

“Even so?”
he said as if he already knew.

“A well-placed dagger … or sword,” Drake said, casting his eyes on John’s weapon, “separated his head from his neck.”

“Whoever killed d’Évreux,” John surmised, “did so to keep him forever silent. Why would that be, I wonder? Perhaps because he’s the archer who let loose the killing arrow of yester night?”

“Yet you said nothing.”

“I wanted to see the drama play out.”

“Then do you think you can dispense with the sword, dear cousin? My arms grow weary.”

“They’ll grow wearier once they are in shackles.”

“You don’t deny you recruited Tancrede, then?”

“You are the assassin, Drake, no one else. You subverted d’Évreux as a diversion. Richard trusts you beyond reason. His one fatal flaw, remaining loyal to those who play him false.”

“You would know better than I
.”

The
comte’s left cheek ticced. The he released a one-note laugh, raised his sword two-fisted, and prepared for the downstroke.

“
PUT UP, MILORD!”
Chauvigny decried. He was not alone. Sorely battered, Béthune and Fors bracketed the rubicund knight. “You will put up, milord,” André repeated, his voice insistent.

Even a prince of low means knows when the odds run against him. Though he aborted the downstroke, John refused to wholly back down. The sword returned
to its former position, again pressing dangerously against a knight’s exposed neck.

“The Lady Jacotte,” Chauvigny said, “is most foully dead. In her own bed. Within snoring distance of her bedmates
. Who heard and saw nothing.”

While keeping one heavy-lidded eye on Drake, John asked, “Poison?”

“’Twould appear so. Milord, there is more. D’Évreux had a rendezvous with her. He’s …”

“I know.” John nodded toward Drake. “This man did it.”

Chauvigny hesitated contradicting the comte of Mortaigne.

“André,” Drake hoarsely
pleaded. The sword dug deeper. Blood flowed freely, seeping warm and ticklish.

His throat livid with the imprint of Drake’s boot, Baldwin flickered inimical eyes at him
before turning toward the prince. “Then why did fitzAlan return? When he could have been halfway to freedom by now?”

“Why
, to silence Tancrede and the
demoiselle
, of course.”

André finally had something to say. “Except it was Drake who suggested we look for Tancrede. Together.”

“A ruse.” Not once taking eyes off his prisoner, John re-balanced his feet.

His nose swollen twice its size, Fors prudently approached Drake and gave him a baleful glance as he drew the dragon sword from its scabbard. “Clean,” he noted.

“Easily wiped clean after the fact. Now if it please you, put this man in chains and deposit him in the tower before he hurts himself with my sword. As he did once before.”

“John, John,” Drake said jovially
, though the sword pinched with every word. “Why accuse me when there are so many others from which to choose? Why not your brother, the archbishop of York?”

“
Geoff doesn’t have the guts to—”

“
Or Chauvigny there?”

“Me? Why me?” 

“Or Béthune? Or Fors, even? Hah! I have it now! Why didn’t I think of it before? The king of France. He has more at stake than any. And how inconvenient of his queen to die, yesterday of all days.”

“Philippe is no more guilty of regicide than
—”

“King Richard himself?”

“The comte’s arm was growing tired. The sword dug deeper.

You saw,” John said to the others. “
You all saw. Philippe saved my brother the king from this man and his brother. Speaking of which, where is Stephen?” He peered closer. “Perhaps
you
are Stephen. I never can get the two of you straight. Come to think, I can. Stephen doesn’t have the effrontery of his older brother. Ergo, you’re Drake, and Stephen is … where?” The sword made its point. “I ask again. Or could he be in bed with my good sister-to-be?”

“Not when she’s skulking about the castle like a wraith.”

“And now he accuses France’s sister.” Again the sword pressed its advantage. “Richard insulted you. We all heard. Did we not Chauvigny? Reason enough for reprisal.”

“But you want to be king,” said Drake, his head rising ever higher against the wall at his back.

The sword left his neck. “There! That proves it! He’s raving, I tell you!” John sought support from the others. “He’s trying to throw suspicion away from himself.”

The knights exchanged bewildered looks. Béthune seemed to be
taking John’s side, probably because he was wearing clothes borrowed or purloined from a Dreux villager. To Fors, it hardly mattered who was telling the truth. Dead on his feet, he only wanted the nearest bed and something icy to put on his nose. And Chauvigny ….

André glanced at Drake before shrugging. “I am no friend of fitzAlan’s. Tonight
, none of us are. But this is not the way to decide it,
mon seigneur
, with a sword to his neck. It reeks of calumny.”

“By God’s eyes, it doesn’t! It reeks of justice.”

For the sake of ending the standoff, the knights were ready to back the king’s brother. Stepping forward, they took places on either side of the prince. “Sieur fitzAlan,” Chauvigny said, “our regrets.”

The king’s guard arrived in
rush of footsteps and a clanging of weapons. The moment passed. The dynamics changed. Chances of escape had dwindled from one against four to one against a dozen. The odds, Drake surmised, still held hope, but the chances were slim.

“Captain d’Amboise
,” John said. “You’re acquainted with this knave, the most gallant, the most brave, the most traitorous
Sirrah
fitzAlan?”

Mallory d’Amboise stepped forward
and regarded Drake with a single malevolent eye, black as a jet bead, the other eye scarred and only half open. “I served his father for many a year, milord.”

“He is guilty of regicide, or near
ly so. You may take him and his accomplices to the tower. They are traitors, every one.”

“Milord,” Baldwin
squawked, “we were prepared to obey you.”

“In God’s name you weren't! You intended to disarm me and let this villain go free!”

“I swear to you …”

“En
ough! Why do you tarry, Captain?”

Knowing well the reputation of the three knights irrespective of the fourth, whom the old chevalier had watched grow to manhood while a steadfast member of the Itchendel Castle guard, d’Amboise hesitated.

“Sieur d’Amboise,” John said. “Whose man are you? Whom do you serve to the exclusion of all others, notwithstanding vows you might have made in Canterbury Cathedral based on sentimentality rather than considered judgment.”

Know this,
Drake fitzAlan. Though I serve John, I am your man
.

Remembering the moment when Drake could have run his sword
of justice through the king’s brother but chose to turn aside, Mallory nodded toward the young knight but said to John, “You,
mon seigneur
, and you alone.”

“Then do your duty.”

In what proved to be an effortless task, the sentries briskly disarmed those nearest—Chauvigny, Béthune, and Fors—and secured them in shackles …

“By the bye,” John said casually
to Drake. “We have already taken your squire into custody. You shall see him soon.”

… and failed to take heed of the fourth much more dangerous knight, whom they presumed the
comte had well in hand.

They
couldn’t have been more wrong. A sword clattered heavily to the floor. Feet shifted in the rushes. A dagger appeared. Drake swung around the disarmed comte de Mortaigne and put the blade to the front of his quivering throat. Rescue was instantly thwarted with the heavy-handed tip of a dragon sword thrust violently forward.

Holding up
his iron-fettered hands, Chauvigny, shouted, “Release us, you knaves!”

Mallory d’Amboise shifted
his vision between three benign knights versus one formidable one, and took a tentative step toward the formidable one.

“Stand off should you wish to be heroes
,” Drake shouted.” Or advance, should you wish to be executioners. Well? Which is it to be?”

And d’Amboise, helpless to either prevent or assist, looked
at the three-foot blade pointed at his heart and said, “Go, Drake!” His words rang with authority. 

Using the dagger
like a bridle at the comte’s throat, he kept the sentries at a respectful distance. John would have spoken if Drake had allowed. He would have swallowed bile if Drake had allowed. Even in the face of losing every bit of pride and self-respect, he would have swooned to the filthy rushes if Drake had allowed. Instead he found himself being led backwards by the razor-sharp edge of the dagger.

Drake maneuvered
the prince beyond the wide portal separating gatehouse from courtyard, and seeing escape close at hand, projected his voice to the rafters and crowed. Intimidated by the young knight’s apparent lunacy, Mallory’s men looked to their captain for guidance. In their hesitance, Drake flung John away, swung shut the massive double doors against onslaught, and quickly secured the draw bar. The pounding of fists reverberated, but the doors held fast.

Drake spun around
and faced his adversary. “As I was saying, a very pretty costume, but unsuitable for fighting.” Pitching John against the wall and whipping the jewel-encrusted belt out from around his waist, Drake continued equably, “But wholly suitable for lovemaking. The feisty Jacotte, perhaps?”

John howled as Drake bound the leather strapping around his wrists. “You dare lay a finger on me?
And worse, accuse me of murdering a lady?”

Drake tumbled him to the ground
, and removing a bridle from a hook, lashed the comte’s feet together. “Once a rabid dog has tasted blood, it wants another taste. Were it not for your short stature, you might have made a passable knight. As it is, you’ll make a bad king. And it is my duty to prevent such a wretched fate from coming to pass.”

“Philippe was right. You are a contemptible whoreson.”

Drake gathered up the reins of Béthune’s steed. “I should have killed you when I had the chance. I’d be dead, but then again, so would you.”

“You will pay for this. As God is my witness
, I will make you pay.”

Drake
opened the sally port and mounted Béthune’s bay palfrey. “It would seem you have no luck, John, when it comes to overpowering an unarmed knight.”

And Drake was off, urging the horse
through the door and escaping across the drawbridge into the early light of dawn.